


A Hundred Echoes

by sassyjumper



Series: Post-finale Road Trip [6]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:32:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson is having chemotherapy side effects. House does his thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hundred Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written over a year ago. I'm posting this and a few other older fics as part of the Sick!Wilson Renaissance Fest on LJ, which is happening [here.](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/)

 

 

 

 

 

 

They were walking down the street, on the same path they’d tread many mornings since landing in Houston a month ago. The same two-block stretch between their Cancer Apartment and Mimi’s Café, where the French toast was passable and coffee refills were free.

But today was different. Today, Wilson was wearing flip-flops. And the sound was slowly driving House mad.

“Hey,” he said, abruptly halting and raising his cane in front of Wilson to impede further flip-flopping. “Why don’t we stop here?”

Wilson stared at the cane briefly before looking at House. “Here? In the middle of the sidewalk?” He peered at the closest building. “In front of Billy’s Tattoos and Insurance?”

“Yes,” House affirmed, lowering his cane. “I’m in the market for both. How did Billy know?”

Wilson sighed. “House, I’m tired. C’mon, we’re almost there.”

“You go ahead. I’m gonna hang here for a minute.”

“What? Why?”

House gripped his cane tighter. Time for some truth-telling. “Because if I have to listen to one more flippity-flop, I’m going to kill you. And that would defeat the purpose of this whole trip.”

Wilson glared, but it was half-hearted. “I know it’s annoying. But if you can just hold out for another half-block, it’ll all be over.”

“Why are you wearing them anyway?” House persisted, looking him up and down. “You look like a middle-aged frat boy.”

He really did. As usual, Wilson was wearing a baseball cap to mask the chemo hair loss, along with low-slung baggy jeans and a t-shirt. But the flip-flops were a curious addition.

“It’s August in Houston,” he defended. “I wanted a little air circulation.”

House studied his face, looking for a sign of the true underlying reason for the flip-flops. But the bastard was impassive. House had no other choice. “OK,” he conceded.

Wilson narrowed his eyes. “OK? You’re just going to accept that I’ve purchased new and unusual footwear?”

House pondered that for a moment. “Yes,” he decided.

Wilson slowly nodded. “All right. Can we proceed?”

House bounced his cane on the pavement. “Sorry, no. You’re still unbelievably annoying. Go ahead and I’ll meet you there in a few.”

Wilson shook his head, but obediently turned and began flip-flopping away. House thought he heard him mutter something like “asshole,” but he couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t important anyway; the most vital thing was that he had some alone time to mull over this unexpected fashion choice.

 

*******

 

“You’re just having a bagel, and you’re not even gonna slap some Smucker’s on it?” House cross-examined, pushing the condiment caddy toward Wilson.

“I just need something bland,” he replied wearily, slumping down further in the booth.

_This is not OK._ Wilson always had something boring for breakfast these days, but he’d at least go for the oatmeal and fruit.

House watched as Wilson picked up a bagel half and took a bite.

_Wait a minute._

“That’s not how you eat a bagel,” he said, pointing his fork in an accusatory manner.

Wilson took his time chewing and swallowing before adopting his standard puzzled face. “I’m breaking bagel protocol?”

“That’s not how _you_ eat a bagel,” House insisted. “You pick little pieces off. You never hold a whole half…”

He trailed off as realization struck. Yesterday, Wilson had refused to have breakfast before heading to the hospital. Then at dinner, he’d asked House to make him a sandwich, and only ate part of it. Afterward, he’d even left dish duty to House—which was why the dishes were still sitting in the sink.

House had assumed it was the nausea and appetite loss, but now that he considered it, he hadn’t seen Wilson handle a utensil or a set of keys, or all that much of anything, in a couple days.

“It’s your hands,” he said, looking Wilson in the eyes. “Or more likely, your fingers. Your fine motor skills are starting to go.” He paused to see if Wilson would respond, but received only a blank stare.

“You can’t tie your shoes,” House pronounced. “Hence, the flip-flops.”

Wilson opened his mouth as if to protest or snark, just like pre-thymoma Wilson would have. But more and more, this bald, flip-flopped version was too tired for verbal volleying. So he shut his mouth and just gave a little shrug.

“Which drug is it?” House asked, as if it mattered.

“Must be the cisplatin.”

House nodded. Wilson had just started his second cycle of the induction chemo. They had to do three cycles before Chiu would try to remove the tumor. If that worked out, there’d be a round of chest radiation, then another three courses of chemo—with cisplatin in the mix again.

House leaned forward and put his forearms on the table. “Have you told Chiu?”

Wilson shook his head. “It’s not bad. There’s no point.”

“Are you in pain?” House pressed, knowing the likelihood of a straight answer was slim to none.

Wilson dipped his head so his face was obscured by that stupid cap. “No. Not really. I mean, sometimes at night there’s a shooting pain.” He glanced at House. “It’s mainly just numbness and weakness in my fingers.”

“Why haven’t you told Chiu? Maybe he can—”

“What?” Wilson cut him off, meeting his eyes. “The standard response is to lower the dose, or even stop the cisplatin altogether. I can’t…If we do that…” He looked down at his pathetic dry bagel.

_No,_ House silently agreed. _We can’t cut the dose._

The scans since the first round of chemo indicated no new tumor growth. So they were going in the right direction; they just needed to keep going.

And anyway, like Wilson said, it wasn’t that bad. Against his better judgment, House decided to believe him.

He sat back. “Fine. But if it gets worse…”

Wilson smiled wanly. “Don’t worry. You’ll know.”

 

*******

 

It got worse. Over the next couple days, the numbness spread into Wilson’s feet, and the occasional shooting pain started firing more often, into his hands and arms now. He couldn’t hide it from Chiu, who advised cutting the cisplatin dose. Wilson refused.

Of course, House heard about the treatment decision secondhand, since he was busy staying away from the hospital and pretending to be dead. On the bright side, Wilson’s flip-flops were no longer an issue. With the nerve-damaged feet, he had to wear proper shoes, since any little scrape could turn into a festering wound.

That also meant House had to tie Wilson’s sneakers for him.

House plopped down on the coffee table and patted his left thigh. “Upsies.”

Wilson stared at him sullenly from his perch on the couch. His eyes looked huge in his pale, drawn face—huge and dull, House thought. It was enough to make him miss the little spark they would get when Wilson was gearing up for a lecture.

House sighed. “Stop pouting. I’ll buy you some stylin’ slip-ons today while you’re getting chemo’d.”

“Great,” Wilson grumbled, slowly placing a foot on House’s thigh. “You’ll probably get me orange Crocs.”

House smiled a little as he started on the sneaker. Wilson, however, spoiled the momentary light mood by hissing in pain.

“What?” House stopped mid-tie. “That hurt?”

Wilson shook his head, grimacing. “Arm,” he almost whispered, grasping his right forearm. The fingers of his right hand were curled like claws.

“Just breathe,” House instructed.

“Yeah, got it.”

After a few deep breaths, Wilson’s hand unclenched and he began to slowly move his fingers.

“So,” House said casually, as he signaled for Wilson's other foot. “How long will it take for the neuropathy to go away once the chemo’s over?”

Wilson looked at him. “Hard to say. It might not go away at all.”

“What are the odds?”

Wilson huffed a little laugh. “You want a number? It depends. Higher dose means a higher risk it’ll be permanent.”

House nodded. He knew that, of course, but talking statistics was comfortable. Numbers were grounding—a twenty percent chance, a simple 4/4 rhythm on the guitar. House suddenly realized he missed his guitars, and that he was still holding on to Wilson’s foot.

“OK,” he said, returning the foot and gracing Wilson with a syrupy smile. “Your shoes are all tied. Now let’s get you on the bus.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, then slowly rose and began an inelegant shuffle on his numb feet. “Don’t forget your backpack,” House cooed, grabbing the bag from the couch.

Wilson halted and held out his arms. “You can stop with the voice anytime,” he groused, as House slipped the backpack on him. “You make a really creepy mom.”

“Is it the beard?” House asked, moving past him to open the apartment door.

Wilson ducked his head, but House caught a flicker of amusement in his eyes before he did. It was brief, but it was there.

He followed Wilson out the door and all the way to the curb in front of the building, then waited with him till he got on the shuttle. Just to make sure he didn’t fall.

 

*******

 

House heard the pained gasp and blinked his eyes open, wondering for a moment why he’d made it. His leg, he registered dimly, was only at its baseline level of suckage. Then he felt the bed shift.

_Oh._ There were still times when he woke up and didn’t understand why Wilson was lying next to him. He always remembered quickly, though.

“Hey,” he said hoarsely. “OK?”

The only response was a shaky exhale. House started to reach for the bedside lamp, then hesitated; he’d found that Wilson tended to be more truthful in the dark. So he grabbed his pills instead.

“I’m giving you a Vicodin. Or three,” he said, sitting up.

“No,” Wilson answered sharply.

There was enough moonlight that House could see Wilson was on his left side, facing away from him. Which was great, because it was easier to rant at his back.

“You’re an idiot,” he accused. “Are you trying to prove you don’t need narcotics?”

“No,” Wilson repeated, into the pillow this time.

“Then what the hell is your problem? You dropped the Cymbalta, and now you’re just refusing to try anything else?”

Chemo Round Two had ended a few days ago, but the neuropathy was progressing. Chiu prescribed Cymbalta for the pain, but almost immediately Wilson started claiming it worsened his nausea and made him dizzy. Part of House suspected he just didn’t want to be on an antidepressant again—for some obscure reason that only made sense in Wilson’s head.

“I’m using the lidocaine patches,” Wilson protested. “ _Ah!_ Fuck.”

“Yeah, they’re working really well.”

Wilson let out a sound that was somewhere between a choke and a sob.

“You. Need. More. Help,” House said, trying to tamp down the anger that was beginning to swell.

He waited for a response, listening as Wilson’s erratic breathing steadied. “I,” Wilson finally said, “I have a scrip for Percocet if it gets really bad.”

“Jesus Christ, what are you waiting for?”

No answer, but House could supply his own. “Are you afraid I’ll steal some? Mix a little oxy with my hydro for kicks?”

“Not everything is about you, House,” Wilson ground out.

“Really?” House said in mock-wonder. “OK, then what is it about _you_ that you won’t accept real pain relief? You took the Vicodin during your super-chemo.”

“This is different.” Wilson lifted his head a little. “Narcotics aren’t the only option.”

“Yeah. Lying awake all night sobbing into your pillow is another.”

“House, please just leave me alone,” Wilson implored wearily.

“Can’t, sorry. When you lie awake writhing in pain it keeps me up, too. And that’s unacceptable.”

“Then I’ll take the couch.” Wilson sat up and tossed off the blanket, only to yelp in pain again.

This time House switched on the lamp and turned to find Wilson sitting on the edge of the bed, doubled over.

“Idiot,” he muttered, getting up and rounding the bed, Vicodin in hand.

He gingerly lowered himself to the floor to assess the situation. Wilson was clutching his right calf, whispering a string of curses, and his foot was twisted at an unnatural angle. House started to reach his hand out, not quite sure what he was doing. He just thought he should touch Wilson in some way.

“House, don’t. You’ll make it worse.”

Wilson must’ve thought he was reaching for the foot. House considered correcting him, but decided to let it go. He shook his pill bottle instead.

“Take a Vicodin. It’ll at least knock you out so we can both get some sleep…And taking one won’t make you an addict, by the way.”

“I know that,” Wilson mumbled, loosening his grip on his leg.

“Good.” House shook the bottle again.

After a moment Wilson nodded and held out a trembling hand. House ignored it and instead emptied a pill into his own hand and held it to Wilson’s lips. “You’d just drop it,” he explained.

Wilson held his gaze briefly before parting his lips to take the Vicodin. He dry-swallowed it then murmured a “thanks.”

“Yeah,” House said, pulling himself up and trudging to his side of the bed. “Now try to keep your whimpering down.”

Before turning off the lamp, he looked down at Wilson. His eyes were closed, but the lines of pain across his face were plain. House reflexively rubbed his own thigh. He knew how intimate you could get with your own pain, but other people’s pain had a way of shutting you out. That almost made it worse.

House shifted his eyes to the bottle still in his hand. He hesitated only a moment before popping it open and tossing back a pill. He’d need it soon enough anyway.

 

*******

 

“God, you’re slow.” House stopped to wait for Wilson for the third time since they’d left the apartment. It would take an hour to get to Mimi’s at this rate.

“Sorry. I lack your limping experience,” Wilson muttered, breathing hard and leaning on his cane—one of those lame medical-supply ones with a wide hand-grip so he could keep his hand flat. He shook his head. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Walking is good for you,” House said. “You’ve been sitting in that apartment for days.”

“Yeah. Well, I do like to chill.”

House moved into Wilson’s personal space. “Remember after the infarction, when you wouldn’t let me have any peace? I’m returning the favor.”

Wilson looked down. “I feel like shit, House.”

He was now on pregabalin, which supposedly had fewer side effects than the Cymbalta. But one side effect it did have was fatigue, and Wilson had spent the better part of the past two days asleep.

“You need to eat,” House said flatly. “C’mon, we’re almost there.”

“I can’t. Let’s go back.”

_Stubborn bastard._ House fished the apartment keys out of his pocket. “I’m hungry. You can go back yourself.” He jingled the keys. “Here ya go.”

Wilson scowled. “You know my hands can’t…”

“Oh, right.” House pocketed the keys then shrugged. “Guess you’re stuck.”

Wilson’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I’m going back,” he spat, turning on his heel. “I’ll sit in the lobby.”

“Great,” House said brightly. “More dry bagels for me.”

This time he heard the proclamation of “asshole” loud and clear.

 

*******

 

When House got back to the apartment, he found Wilson crouched on the floor of the kitchenette. “How did you get in?”

Wilson ignored the question in favor of struggling with the little broom and dust pan in his hands. He was trying to sweep up the remains of a water glass. House sighed. “Just leave it. You’ll end up cutting yourself.”

Wilson dropped the broom—accidentally, if his whispered “fuck” was any indication.

“How did you get in?” House repeated.

Wilson looked up at him, jaw set and anger flashing in his eyes. _Good. At least there’s some life in there._  
  
“The super let me in. I told him some limping douchebag thought it was funny to lock me out.”

House leaned against the kitchen doorway. “You think this amuses me?”

Wilson looked at the shards of glass. “Who knows.”

“Right.” House mock-agreed. “I do find chronic pain pretty funny.”

Wilson said nothing, so he continued. “Has it occurred to you that I’m trying to help? You may recall that I have years of experience dealing with pain.”

Wilson let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “I seem to recall. Has it occurred to you you’re not the only one who knows what pain feels like?”

House bristled at the words. Yeah, actually he did have Wilson beat when it came to feeling pain. “You’ve had this neuropathy for, what? A few weeks?” he said incredulously. “Sorry, buddy, that’s not chronic pain.”

Wilson rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he said tiredly. “Well, not all pain is physical.”

House balked; he wasn’t expecting that particular detour. For some reason, his focus fell on the red baseball cap still on Wilson’s head; they’d gotten him a Houston Astros cap because Wilson wanted to fit in.

And just like that, House felt his anger drain away. “I’m aware,” he murmured.

Wilson didn’t look at him, but gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

House sighed and put his cane aside. “Here,” he said, moving to brace his back against the refrigerator. “You should probably get out of the broken-glass pile.”

He reached down, and together they awkwardly got Wilson to his feet.

“You’re a mess,” House immediately pronounced, looking at the water spilled down the front of Wilson’s t-shirt. “I can’t take you outside like that.”

“House, I told you—”

“And I told _you_ that you need to eat. It’s better if you do it where you can break someone else’s glasses, butterfingers. Oh, sorry—neuropathy fingers.”

Wilson blew out a breath. “I dunno.” He moved to lean against the counter. “I’m exhausted. And I can’t feel half my body, except when it hurts. And I look like a bag of bones. And I’m bald.”

House groaned. “Are you seriously going on about the hair? You’ve already got some head stubble.”

Wilson seemed to sink a little. “No, I…I just wanna stay here.”

He looked at House then, with such a pathetic plea in his eyes that House almost dropped the whole thing. Almost.

“Uh-uh. I’m done making you sandwiches. Time to let Subway take over.”

Wilson frowned, but after a short stare-down he pushed away from the counter and began to shuffle toward the bedroom. House ducked his head as Wilson moved past, to hide the threatening smile. It was such a small victory, House felt stupid for letting it affect him. On the other hand, he’d take what he could get these days.

A minute later, Wilson called to him. “Hey, can I borrow a t-shirt? I don’t have anything clean.”

House rolled his eyes. “You’re crazy,” he said, as he limped into the bedroom and went straight for the closet. “You brought double the clothes I did.” He retrieved a button-down and held it out.

Wilson shook his head. “You know I can’t—”

“Try,” House ordered. “You’ve been doing your little hand-grip exercises, right?”

Wilson said nothing, but after a moment’s hesitation he reached to take the shirt.

House watched as Wilson put it on and began to work on the bottom button. It took him a few seconds to realize he actually felt nervous. _Relax. It’s a fucking button._

The first button slipped in, and Wilson exhaled through his mouth like he’d been holding his breath. As he started on the second button, he furrowed his brow in that way he used to when reading a patient’s labs. House darted his eyes from Wilson’s face to his fumbling fingers and back again—silently willing him to keep going.

But then Wilson growled in frustration and let his arms fall limply to his sides. “I can’t,” he said, the defeat clear in his voice.

So House did the only thing he could. Without a word, he stepped forward and began buttoning the shirt.

“They’re just buttons,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on his work. “No big.”

He chanced a glance at Wilson’s face and found that his eyes were squeezed shut. House felt his throat tighten, though he wasn’t sure why. They were just buttons.

“There,” he said, stepping back when the job was done. Wilson kept his eyes closed, and House wasn’t sure what to do.

He cleared his throat. “So, you ready for a foot-long?…That’s a sandwich.”

Wilson opened his eyes, and they were shiny.

“House. What if this doesn’t work?”

House opened then closed his mouth, not certain what was being asked. “The pregabalin? I guess we’ll be two cripples popping narcotics and roaming the highways and byways. I’ll drive, though.”

“No,” Wilson said quietly. “I mean the chemo. Everything.”

House blinked. He’d spent the last month trying not to think about that scenario. This had to work.

“Well,” he said slowly, “if it doesn’t work, then…I suppose that’ll be it, won’t it?”

Wilson pressed his lips together and gave an almost imperceptible nod before looking off to the side.

“But,” House added, stepping closer to him, “I also think ‘what if’ questions are pretty pointless. Right now, there’s nothing we can do but stick with the plan.”

Wilson worked his jaw. When he met House’s eyes again he smiled weakly. “And go to Subway?”

House nodded. “I have a coupon.”

Wilson exhaled a little laugh, then dropped his head to his chest. “Um. Yeah, OK.”

“OK,” House agreed. He waited for Wilson to push off the bed and hobble past, then followed him to the living room, where they grabbed their respective canes.

“If you do become a permanent cripple,” House said as he opened the apartment door, “we are totally getting you a cooler cane. My cane can’t be seen hanging out with that thing.”

“Yes. I’m really concerned about that.”

House watched Wilson limp through the door and start down the hall, leaning heavily on his ugly medical-supply cane. It was painful. If Wilson went through this and it didn’t work, House wasn’t sure he could live with that.

So it had to work.

“House?” Wilson had stopped and turned around. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head. “Just giving you a head start, gimpy.”

Wilson held his gaze. “C’mon. I’ll stay with you.”

House found he had no reply. But that was fine; he just had to put one foot in front of the other. When he caught up with Wilson they fell into an awkward but familiar kind of synchrony. And they went the rest of the way together.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from this quote from _The Unbearable Lightness of Being:_ "Not even one’s own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes."


End file.
